


Somebody need me too much, somebody know me too well

by Handfulofdust



Series: Being Alive [2]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 19:32:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16604168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handfulofdust/pseuds/Handfulofdust
Summary: “When you’re done pretending you’re actually reading that deposition,” he leads, she refuses to look up. “You wanna share that steak?”OR: They finally go on that date.





	Somebody need me too much, somebody know me too well

**Author's Note:**

> I realized about halfway through this I have no idea how to write a date so I settled for misunderstandings, banter and a bunch of OCs. /end shrug.

She's knee deep in some paperwork the new ADA insists is relevant when her well, whatever he is, comes in.

The new ADA came highly recommended by her previous employers in Detroit and has the approval of both the interim DA (who, in spite of being a close friend of the governor's, is both quite good and quite cognizant of the controversy surrounding the office), and special prosecutor Jack McCoy (who she's learning not to begrudge for retiring in the first place.

She’d learned over the years not to get her hopes up about prosecutors. Even Rafa had a bit of a learning curve.

SVU is different. It isn’t about winning. Her SVU is about caring, about the fight. Olivia Benson’s God is judgmental and her Justice is far from blind - it’s omnipotent.

Keshia Charles is exhausting. Thorough would be the more professional term for it.

She didn't have to tell her about victims needing a voice, she didn't need to give the speech about it not being about the conviction.

Keshia already knew all of this. She'd lived and breathed it in Detroit, gone up against the system with hammer and claw. Keshia’s version of justice is a fight - but she’ll immediately go for the jugular and then bite your ankles. In a way, she reminds her of Rafa - in that she admires the pluck while also wanting to wring their necks.

Except she’s only mad at Keshia because ADA Charles is in love with paperwork.

She’s angry with Rafa because he has to come into her office in the middle of the work day being this handsome. That’s not the problem exactly, but if past is prologue, then he’ll get her all riled up - primed for finally taking her out on that date, and then beg off.

It’s been months now. Months since he told her he’d ask her. Promised he cared for her too. Maybe even told her he loved her.

Yet he still refuses to ask her out.

So she doesn't look up when he enters. She’s tired and frustrated and halfway through this old depo for a settlement of a media exec’s sexual harassment. She's not stopping and getting distracted because her, well whatever they are, has to kill time before the physical therapy appointment he refuses to let her join in on.

They'd fought, argued rather, over whether it was appropriate for her to be there. He didn't want to seem vulnerable, she thought. But when she tried to get Dr. Ben to give her the details he'd informed her that it was probably best for him to do that on his own.

Ben was right. He always was. It still chafed that Rafa wasn’t letting her in.

He doesn’t say hello or announce his presence. He just sits in his chair, content to wallow in silence for a bit.

Silence except for the coffee he’s slurping. She'd never known him to slurp before. He always used to offer her some too.

He doesn’t offer her anything. She just keeps her eyes trained on this paperwork as she quashes the desire to sigh. Then he gulps the last of his caffeine fix with relish, tossing it noisily into the trash. She doesn't even bother to hide her eye roll.

It's when he takes out his phone and starts typing up what has to be a dissertation, all with the keyboard sound on, that she finally loses it.

“Rafa, seriously,” she mutters, looking up from the deposition, “if you're just going to make noise you can play with the other kids in the bullpen.”

He stops, leans back, mouth curving into a slow smile.

She's been tricked.

“Just trying to get your attention,” he smirks, dropping his phone into his pocket.

As much as she would like to continue this banter ( _squabbling until 85_ she thinks with a pang of something like regret) she’s busy and doesn’t have time for him to let her down again. Not even gently. 

“Well ADA Charles is up my ass about this paperwork so I don't have a lot of time to entertain you before your doctor visit,” she snaps. A little too snarkily she realizes.

He lets out a low whistle, then throws his hands up in surrender. “I already went. It's almost 3pm.”

Then he trails off from this line of questioning as something flashes behind his eyes - understanding, almost.

“Liv,” he starts, so softly she bristles against it, “did you work through lunch again?”

She doesn’t remember working through lunch but she must have. That has only a little to do with her irritability and mostly to do with him being so infuriatingly perceptive (and gorgeous and a bit of a tease really).

”No,” she lies, then caves at his eyebrow raise, “Yes, but this is important and-”

“Hey,” he interrupts. “I'm not yelling at you. Believe me, I've done it multiple times.”

She drops her head down before she smiles at him. She’s supposed to be mad at him and looking at paperwork. She curls her lips together, twisting her mouth around so she doesn’t beam at him. She’s a mess.

She tries to roll her eyes, to lace her response with the acid she’s feeling toward him, but she doesn’t really feel like that at all anymore. She’s not sure when it happened.

What comes out is a scowl that doesn’t reach the eyes, and a jab at his eating habits. “Like you've ever missed a meal.”

He feigns offense, hand prostrate against his chest as if she’s deeply wounded him. She knows she hasn’t because he’s still grinning like the Harvard educated idiot he is. Then he reaches down dig into his briefcase.  

“Why do you think I have so many snacks in here?”

He tosses her a bag of peanuts, a little too expertly for someone who purports to hate baseball and everything it stands for.

“Of course you have emergency snacks.” She tuts, begrudgingly opening the container. They're unsalted. His snacks had gotten healthier since the incident. Though maybe that has more to do with Ben.

“Of course.” He agrees, taking the opportunity to open a bag of banana chips. “So maybe I can help you with this.”

Ah… that's why he's here. He misses the casework. The job. She couldn’t indulge him even if she wanted to.

“Nice try. You know I can't tell you anything.”

He nods his head approvingly. As if it was a test and she passed with flying colors. Good to know.

“So it doesn't have anything to do with a certain article by a certain Pulitzer Prize winner about a certain news anchor?”

The New Yorker’s latest expose had been both a bane and blessing really. Hundreds of victims had come forward in its wake, but several of them even she didn’t believe. This latest one though - she was shaping up to be the linchpin of the case. If they could get past the settlement she had been party to several years ago. ADA Charles insists there has to be something in it that means they can pursue a case against yet another creepy powerful man in power.

“Certainly not.” She lies. He knows. “Keshia is just being really… dogged.”

“I like Keshia,” he nods, fingers reaching into his chip bag. “She's a good advocate,” he says nonchalantly, throwing her a look that indicates he would have done the exact same thing.

He’s wrong there. He would have read the paperwork himself. Really, she should have let one of the detectives do it, but they’re too busy taking statements. She needs more staff. She doesn’t have time to train.

She doesn’t like to delegate. She now remembers telling Keshia she’d go over it when she’d offered. Maybe she’s a good ADA after all, present company notwithstanding..

“You haven't even met her,” she scoffs.

“She challenges you but you don't hate her,” he reads her a bit too well, like he’s always been able to. “She's good.”

He’s not wrong, but she isn’t going to admit it. He knows he’s right and she’s not going to give him the satisfaction of telling him so. Instead she acts like he needs more evidence.

“This is all you need to go off of?” she raises an eyebrow, as if she didn’t know it already.

“We’ve talked,” he shrugs, “Plus Carisi likes her.”

“Carisi likes everyone.”

Dominick Carisi thinks Keshia Charles walks on water and her hair is full of moonbeams. He isn’t to be trusted with his opinions on mildly attractive lawyers.

Even though his opinions on mildly attractive lawyers tend to bear out. Even though he’s living proof she can delegate after all.

She glares back at Rafa’s indecipherable disposition. She doesn't know why he's in her office actually, but she's fine doing work while he sits here. It feels a little like the way things used to be. Even if she can't share any of the details of her case with him now.

She looks back down at the blurry paperwork that now has remnants of peanut dust all over it. He’ll tell her eventually. She’s sure.

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“When you’re done pretending you’re actually reading that deposition,” he leads, she refuses to look up. “You wanna share that steak?”

Is he… actually asking to go on the date he’s refused to acknowledge for months now?

She gives up on paperwork, and instead of answering, takes the opportunity to get a good look at him. He's dressed in a purple plaid shirt and a solid fuchsia jacket. She should have known he wasn't going to his PT in this outfit.

She can't see the suspenders but she has her suspicions.

The tie is a magnificent royal purple paisley. None of this should work but it does. He's, well, he's something else. He really did come here to finally annoy her into a date while dressed like the flying purple people eater and Barney the dinosaur had a great time together.

“Can I take the drooling as a yes?” He smirks, now possibly aware of the effect he has on her. Well, maybe he always was. Now he’s just more willing to act on it.

What she wants to do is finish up what he's been delaying. Maybe close the blinds and lock the door. Make good use of the couch.

But, he hasn't been medically cleared for that. She's been trying to get him to agree to a date since the night of Grant's indictment. Of his attack. The time she almost lost him.

He's refused every time. He's insistent on the steak dinner and will not settle for Jell-O or any other kind of food. She even tried to offer the steak _burgers_ near the Ed Sullivan Theater but he refuses to eat at chain restaurants.

He hasn't even really kissed her since. He’s kissed her forehead several times, breathed in her hair while she’s lain her head over his chest, but that doesn’t count. Not as what she wants it to be anyway.

If he were anyone else she'd think he was paying her back for the six years of dancing around the chemistry. But he's Rafa and she suspects he has some misguided stubbornness about doing it  ** _right_** the first time.

As if right now isn't all she needs.

She registers that he means right now too.

“You meant tonight?” she frowns, “Lucy can't watch him tonight.”

She's quite disappointed about this. Honestly.

“Oh, right,” he mutters, face falling like he's run into an avalanche, like the million other times she’s had to tell him no. She always wants to go.

“Rafa, I'm not turning you down,” she says too eagerly for it not to go to his ego, but they’ve wasted enough time as it is on misunderstandings. “Lucy just isn’t available, and unless you're okay with takeout and entertaining a kindergartner I can't help you with your plans.”

She wants him to be okay with Chinese and board games with Noah. Maybe he would be, eventually. But for the first date, for some reason he is adamant it be perfect.

She doesn't know how to tell him perfect is him. He wouldn’t believe her and if he did he’d be insufferable about it for years.

“I'll cancel the reservation,” he shakes his head slightly. “It's fine.”

He already made a reservation? Maybe she could call Lucy away from her studies for a few hours. She feels awful.

“No,” she frowns, “it isn't fine.”

“I mean, Ben and Drew could watch him,” he mutters almost conspiratorially. “If you're okay with that?”

It’s his lack of smirk coupled with a genuine look of sheepishness that convinces her he isn’t playing a game. He must’ve already talked to Lucy.

“If they're okay with that,” she offers.

“They are,” he answers too eagerly to pull off this ruse. She’s too amused to push it. “I texted on the way over. Ben says I owe him three weeks of vacation in exchange.”

She imagines that as co founder of the foundation Doctor Perfect can set his own vacation time, but whatever. He's okay, she guesses. His husband is really nice, she assures herself.

She must be really desperate if she's going for this.

Her next best bet is Carisi, who she suspects is on his own date. If the cloud of cologne and gelled hair are any indication. Even Rollins had noticed. Fin is on mandatory rest after working a triple shift and Amanda is 85 months pregnant.

She needs more detectives. She needs more friends. She’s going to have to learn to be okay with Doctor Wonderful eventually.

“Seems fair,” she snarks. Rafa does not take the bait. He just smiles.

“So I'll pick you up at 7?” he asks as he gets up and buttons his jacket.

“You're not expecting me to wear something to match that purple monstrosity are you?” She goads, gesturing to his tie.

“First off, just wear something sophisticated,” he says as if that's supposed to mean something. “Secondly, you love it.”

She does. She doesn’t even have a good comeback for him. It’s possible she’s a little off-kilter since he’s finally - blessedly asked her on a damn date.

It’s possible she’s a little off-kilter because he’s infuriating and she loves him more than the tie. A lot more than the tie.

“Whatever,” she answers with an impressive show of intellect. He laughs, refusing to take his eyes off of her. “Rafa, you're staring.”

She feels warm and glowy and happy and this can’t be the way he’s always looked at her, can it?

His lips curve into another smirk, “So are you.”

She doesn’t even attempt to deny it.

* * *

When she runs home to put on whatever is sophisticated she realizes she hadn’t confirmed any of these plans to watch Noah with the good doctor and his investment whiz husband. She’s thankful he had programmed his number into her phone at some point during Rafa’s recovery. For emergencies.

This doesn’t feel like an emergency but a text won’t hurt.

[ _Did Rafa actually ask you to watch Noah?_ ]

[ _Yeah_ ] he responds a few minutes later [  _bring him over whenever._ ]

Before she can ask him, he texts her the address. They live in some crazy fancy building near Central Park on the Upper East Side because of course they do.

When asks Noah about staying with Ben and Drew for a few hours he excitedly asks her if he can spend the night. Apparently _they have robots and a whole buncha books, Momma_. She’s glad to know he’s still trusting.

As they take the taxi uptown she tries not to be nervous about letting him stay with people she doesn’t quite know. Rafa’s known Ben longer than he’s known her. He’s a doctor. He’s fine.

When she texts her arrival and meets them in the lobby they insist on showing her the place. It’s sleek and modern and all the glass furniture means they definitely don’t have kids. She resists the urge to tell Noah to stay out of the kitchen.

He’s already asked to watch the “big TV” she hadn’t even noticed. She hears the telltale signs of the theme song to PJ Masks and makes it to the hallway. Ben follows her to let her out the door.  

“I’ll, uh,” she stammers, “text you when we’re done.”

Ben just raises an eyebrow. “Lucy is going to pick him up from here tomorrow and take him to school. There’s no need.”

She’s not sure what catches her off guard more - that Ben has more confidence in this date than she does, or that he’s already figured everything out with Lucy.

“You’re assuming -”

“Please,” Drew interjects from the kitchen, eyeing Noah across the open floor plan. She’s honestly happy to know he’s eavesdropping. It means there’s a character flaw somewhere. “If things don’t go there then enjoy the night off. We’re happy to watch him.”

She hopes if things don’t go there she can enjoy the night off. She’s feeling both too nervous and too excited for it to actually go well. Plus, maybe she shouldn’t be hoping it goes there.

Going there on the first date seems way too fast for six years of bullshit. Then again, it’s been six years of bullshit.

She’s a little bristly about other people discussing her sex life, if she’s being honest with herself. Her potential sex life, really.

She squares Ben’s gaze, raising a skeptical eyebrow, “I thought you negotiated for three weeks of vacation for the favor.”

He laughs.

“Only to give Rafael a hard time,” then changes his tone to something like sympathy. “You just relax okay?”

He’s being genuine and nice and she hates it. She hates how nervous she feels, how everything seems under a microscope. How he can incisively get under her skin without even trying.

He told her he didn’t like her. Why is he doing this for her?

Because he’s Rafa’s friend and Rafa asked him for a favor. 

She sighs, decides to extend an olive branch. Make him feel like he’s helping. “I feel like I’m not wearing the right clothing.”

She’s not entirely worried about the clothing, but she’s not sure what sophisticated means and maybe the black dress with a simple necklace won’t be fancy enough. Friedman would be happy to let her know she looks like a cow, she’s sure.

Instead he smiles, “You look fine.”

Time to face the music, pay the piper, whatever idiom she’s supposed to use here. She places her hand to the doorknob. Then turns around at a sudden thought.

“Noah’s pajamas are in the backpack with Eddie,” the words tumble out as she catches her breath, looking around for a bedroom, “and are you sure he has some place to sleep?”

“Olivia,” Ben answers, putting his hands on her shoulders, “we have a spare bedroom and our nephew is a little older than Noah. We’ve got it covered. If we don’t I have your phone number.”

She huffs, Dr. Perfect has everything covered. She doesn’t know why it bothers her so much that he’s so put together. Drew is just as put together and she doesn’t hate him.

“Thank you,” she manages.

* * *

As Ben latches the door behind her it occurs to her she’s thought none of this through. She doesn’t know where the restaurant is and she doesn’t want to go back to her place if it’s on the way.

She sighs and texts Rafa. She’s so far gone for this she hasn’t thought of anything.

[ _I just dropped him off at Ben’s. Do you want to just meet there?_ ]

She means the restaurant, but it could also mean at Ben’s or his place or whatever. “There” is highly unspecific and vague and she needs to stop overthinking this.

He writes back nearly immediately.

[ _I’ll meet you in the lobby._ ]

Of course he’s in the neighborhood. Probably going to take her to some place fancy that's dimly lit and charges $50 for a caprese salad.  

He’s at the security counter when she gets downstairs, talking animatedly with the staff. Seems he’s over here a lot. In fact he has one of the women in stitches.

She doesn’t have the right to be jealous. It’s stupid for her to be jealous actually. He asked her on this date. He arranged for Noah to stay with his friends.

It’s just - she’s never laughed at him like that - the way a man wants you to. The way that puffs up his ego and makes him feel important. Everyone else makes him feel important. Sometimes she wishes she could tell him how much he really means to her. How almost losing him felt like losing parts of herself. But she can’t. She doesn’t know how.

Maybe they aren’t cut out for this. Maybe there’s too much wrapped up in it and her standards are as ridiculous as his.

You can’t win if you don’t try. But you also can’t lose.

She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders. She walks over to the security desk, pastes on a smile. He doesn’t hear her walk up so she clears her throat slightly.

He turns around. He doesn’t do the double take she only realizes she’s hoping for when she doesn’t get one. Confirmation she isn’t dressed up enough.

Instead he introduces her to Yolanda, who immediately comes out from behind the desk and pulls her into a hug.

“Miss Olivia I'm so happy to finally meet you!” she gushes.

She's confused. She has no idea who Yolanda is outside of the security desk.

“Yolanda is a fan of Noah's artwork,” Rafa smirks.

Yolanda laughs uproariously, slapping him on the arm. She doesn't understand what's so funny. “Every day he shows me a scribble.”

She's been sending the pictures every day? He's been sharing them with all these people? (  _As far as he’s concerned Noah is the next Picasso,_ she remembers Ben telling her _)_

“Not every day,” he corrects.

Yolanda rolls her eyes. Goes back behind the desk. “Anyway, Mister Rafael's been telling me all about this case y’all got,” she types something on her computer. “You make sure you win okay?”

“I'll do my best.”

That’s all she can promise, really, at this point.

“I've been reading up on this new one. He's a piece of work. Between you and Ms Charles y’all can hack it.” She looks up from her computer, eyeing Rafael’s purple suit he hasn’t bothered to change from and her light smattering of jewelry. “You got a hot date tonight?”

“Something like that,” he says, offering a hand out. He seems perplexed when she doesn’t take it, but immediately recovers, pasting the smile back on before Yolanda catches the awkwardness between them.

Good job Olivia.

Yolanda grins back. “Good luck to ya.”

* * *

He motions out the door. They’re halfway down the street, walking some place she isn’t sure about, but she’s with him and he’s fine and she’s somewhere near happy so she’s not going to question it.

Not going to question why he won’t offer his hand again or brush his hand along her back like he used to.

“Yolanda seems nice,” she offers when they’re waiting to cross the street.

He nods, mouth quirking upwards. “That was her nervous. She’s a big fan of yours.”

She’s doubtful of that, “Like she’s a big fan of Noah’s artwork?”

He laughs, but is undeterred. “She's studying criminal justice at Hunter. Wants to be a detective but she's got to put herself through school first. She works nights because it’s quiet enough to study.”

Rafa doesn’t know all of this because he’s been visiting Ben all the time, and he certainly hasn’t been showing Yolanda Noah’s pictures every day if he’s just passing through.

It certainly would explain why he was in the neighborhood. Devious bastard.

“I don't know how I missed you and Ben living in the same building,” she laughs aloud as they’re crossing.

“Not always,” he answers as he directs her to go left, not right. “I moved around when the threats started,” he pauses. “Grant’s threats anyway.”

It strikes her that they've been best friends for who knows how long and she has no idea where he lives. “I'm sorry.”

For not being there, for being selfish, for not pushing him further to tell her. For waiting so long for this.

He stops beside her, hand gently pressed against her forearm to keep her from moving forward. She looks up at him, into his eyes.

“Don't be,” he says earnestly. “I didn't really want you to know. For your own protection.”

She just rolls her eyes and keeps walking. “I don’t need protection Barba.”

“Well I know you're serious about that since you called me Barba,” he laughs. She stops in front of him on the street, not even caring that they look like tourists in Times Square. She glares at him. It’s easier than crying.

“Okay,” he recoils, searching her eyes for what she suspects is the emotion she’s hiding. “I promise I'll tell you next time.”

“Let's hope there isn't a next time,” she leads. It might sound like she’s teasing but she isn’t. He knows she’s hiding something but he hasn’t figured out what it is yet.

“Well that too,” he smirks. She wants to as well, but it isn't the slightest bit funny to her. “The restaurant's right over there.”

He points to a small, hole in the wall looking place about four storefronts down the sidewalk.

When they walk in and are promptly treated like members of the family she's not so sure he needed the reservation or has one. Sneaky.

Its understated and the price points aren't bad - though she knows he will not even consider going Dutch. She should have known he wouldn’t take her to a five star restaurant with French dining service. Of course he's more complicated than that.

“This is … “ she starts as she slides into the booth across from him, “Nice.”

She resists the urge to grab his hands, to run her fingers against his. All she’s craving is contact but she can’t figure out how to ask for it.

“You're surprised?” he cuts through her fog, catching on her tone.

She shrugs, wishing she had a drink to mask her smirk. “I just know how you like to be fancy.”

“Yeah,” he admits, “but you don't.”

“So that was your plan,” she teases, “get me all buttered up so you knew I'd say yes.”

“Who says I had a plan?”

He’s leaning over the table, he’s so close her fingers could accidentally brush his. She could stroke her hands against his cheeks. Maybe she’s been leaning too. Maybe if she leans further she could kiss him herself.

Instead, she falls back, crosses her arms over her chest, “Mr. I don't ask questions I don't know the answer to.”

It wasn’t meant to be cutting or biting. She was trying to squabble, and she’s not sure he’s offended, but the playfulness has dissipated slightly.

“I had contingencies,” he offers.

“Like having a psychiatrist on standby?” he’s squirming. She’s caught him, sussed out his plan. It’s not as fun as she’d hoped.

“Ben is the most boring person alive though,” He deflects, “He reads medical journals for fun.”

She's pretty sure he reads law review articles for fun. It almost sounds fond. Nerd to nerd. Harvard grad to Harvard grad. They complement each other.

If Drew wasn’t around she’d almost think… oh. But. He loves her. He said it.

Once. In a moment of confusion and desperation and under the influence of powerful narcotics. He’s her best friend and he wouldn’t do that to her. Not on purpose. It still hurts to think you’re a second choice.

Before he can ask her about her scowl the waiter comes by to take their order.

She supposes she's supposed to be eating a steak with a Cabernet. So she orders the least expensive one on the menu. He notices but doesn't say anything. He orders a filet.

She attempts to shake herself out of the funk, and he goes for a joke.

“Is this the part where we pretend we're meeting for the first time?”

She’s game. “Who set us up, Carisi?”

“Ben.”

She snorts. It was the exact wrong person to bring up right now. “Dr. Debonair hates me.”

Rafael doesn't miss a beat. “So you're doing this as a favor, because I am his hopeless best friend and he's formally out of options for a blind date.”

She frowns. “I thought I was your best friend?”

His face softens. “Liv, do you wanna play the game or not?”

“Not,” she admits, wrapping her arms around herself as the waiter comes back with the wine. As he leaves she answers his question more directly. “I want to talk about whatever people talk about on dates.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, pouring expertly from the bottle he insisted they leave for him, “Then how about our exes and our five year plans.”

First he brings up Ben, now he’s suggesting they talk about old relationships and boring stuff? She doesn’t think that’s what you’re supposed to talk about on a date.

“Are you trying to lower the bar or something?” she stabs out as he moves to pour her glass too.

“Liv, it's me,” he squares her gaze. He’s trying to say she can tell him what’s wrong. He’s implying that it’s just him. She can talk to him about anything. “Maybe I'm a bit more practiced at giving speeches to larger crowds now but -"

“You didn't need the practice,” she interrupts. She doesn’t like where he’s going.

“I know,” he states, big brass ego in full form, “That's my point. Whatever you’re nervous about, don’t be. I'm your best friend.” Best friend who’s taken several months to ask her out on a date and his probably secretly in love with his other more unavailable best friend. “And I'm already in love with you so you could throw that glass of wine down my shirt and I'd forgive you.”

“Don't tempt me.” She smiles, sipping the Pinot, hoping against hope that grin means she really is his first choice, “but I like that shirt too much to ruin it.”

“I thought it was a monstrosity.”

“Your memory is unreliable.”

Maybe it doesn’t matter if she’s not. Maybe she can learn to live with it if he looks at her like this and he learns to be okay with takeout and spaghetti and robots. Maybe settling isn’t all bad if it’s only one sided and it’s not entirely unrequited love.

They settle into old routines, swapping sides, eating food from each other’s plates. Discussing Noah and Carisi and his tour schedule. He has a conference in San Francisco coming up. She resists the urge to tell him she’s always wanted to see the Golden Gate Bridge.

They’re halfway through the bottle, she’s nearly done with her steak, when she notices he’s nervous as well. It’s something he has to get out to move forward, maybe? To tell her, in the interest of full disclosure, he loves her but he also loves someone else?

No. It’s different than that.

He answers the question she didn’t ask before she gets it out. “Keshia wants to put me on the stand against Walter Grant.”

He downs the rest of his glass. He'd look normal to someone else. He seems calm, but he isn't.

She takes his hand across the table. He's shaking. He'd never admit it.

She’d never imagine Rafael Barba to be a scared witness, though she’d never imagined a different ADA before he resigned. “If you don't want to it's -"

“No,” he bites out, fingers curling against hers. “I have to. It points to how far he was willing to go to protect his reputation - his pockets. I just don't know if Judge Billings will allow it.”

When the Feds had started investigating Grant for violation of the Mann Act, they had helpfully forwarded the New York County District Attorney’s Office several file boxes full of paperwork. Said paperwork proved he targeted several women he previously signed NDA’s with. The conspiracy charges Reston Tyler had been convicted of were suddenly up Grant’s ass, and the acting DA was on a mission to make at least some of the sexual assault cases stick.

Apparently the only way to do that in Myron Billings’ court was to get testimony from a man. Go figure.

“That old dinosaur is going to be presiding over the biggest sex crimes case in years?” She hasn’t let go of his hand. He hasn’t dropped it either. The contact she’s been craving is suddenly his lifeline.

“Keshia is trying to convince him to recuse himself because of appearances.”

Billings would never recuse himself. He’s part of an old guard that likes to postulate about the good old days. He fashions himself a gatekeeper of the way things used to be in a way they never actually were. He should have retired years ago.

“I'm sure he listened,” she mutters.

He takes his other hand to sip on the wine. He doesn’t let hers go. They should probably finish eating but she’s not really that hungry anymore.

“He said something about people like her needing to stay in their places,” he mutters. It does something to the back of her brain. An old insult she doesn’t hear so much anymore. At least, not overtly. These days it tends to be more implied that the gates aren’t open for women. Men like Billings don't bother with implications.

No wonder Rafa is so determined. Beyond the obvious.

“When you testify. Just” she squeezes his hand, “pretend you're making an argument and I'll be there. Like old times.”

He looks up, smiles sadly, “I can't receive coaching from the audience.”

“I meant -”

“I know. And Ben is helping with some breathing exercises.”

“Oh,” she drops his hand suddenly. She can tell it shocks him. “I'll shove it then.”

She knows she’s lashing out and the last thing he needs is to comfort her feelings, her doubts. She can’t help it that she’s scared she waited too long to find him. That they played around whatever this is for so long it doesn’t exist any more.

He furrows his brow at her noisily refilling her wine glass - to the brim.

“I didn’t mean - ”

“I know,” she cuts him off, “Sorry. It’s just that Ben is good at everything and he's a better friend than I am and he hates me.”

At least she’s admitting Ben is the problem. Though how she could deny that at this point she doesn’t know.

Rafa glares at her. He isn’t buying it. “He does not hate you and you know it.”

Best first date she’s ever been on, really. Especially for two people who are supposed to be in love with each other. So, so great.

She’s going to have to come out with it.

She gulps her wine. Swallows deeply. Sighs.

“I can't help thinking he’s an option you would have taken if he was available.”

She’s expecting a denial. What she gets is the double take she wanted earlier. She’s not sure whether to feel stupid or proud that she’s left Rafael Barba speechless.

He closes his eyes briefly, swallows air. “Are you kidding?”

“I don't know.” she mutters. He doesn’t make anything easy, does he? “You don't seem to want to treat this like a date and I think maybe you're settling?”

“Settling?” he chokes. “For you? Liv -"

Well now she definitely feels stupid. She’s really gone and hurt him now. Because she can’t trust that he means what he says.

For you, he said, as if she’s some movie star or hero or something. When she’s the one who gets left behind. Every time. When she’s the one too obtuse to see what’s been staring her in the face, even when it’s been pointed out to her.

He flags the waiter for the check and he makes a face. They weren’t going to eat dessert so she’s not sure of the problem.

“You won't even kiss me,” she grumbles over the last bit of wine, practically whining.

“I've kissed you,” he defends.

Once. When he was attached to a morphine drip and not responsible for the things he said. The heavenly way it felt then is no match to how it feels to be denied it now. To get a press to the forehead and a pat on the back.

Love without passion is - sad really.

“For real,” she answers as if it’s an explanation for every bullshit feeling she’s experiencing right now.

His mouth twists. Not in a good way. “I also had a collapsed lung Olivia. Breathing has been challenging.”

Olivia. Not Liv. She’s one step from pushing him too far away again. She’s fucked up, really. It isn’t that he doesn’t love her. Or that he loves Ben more than he loves her. He’s been stalling because he wasn’t sure if he’d be okay if he went too far.

Great.

“I'm sorry,” she says, reaching for his hand again. He lets her take it. “I thought you might have become… disenchanted with me.”

“No,” it isn’t as sharp as she’s expecting, nor as sweet as she’s wishing. “My God is more forgiving than yours.”

She’s not sure if he’s talking the multiple times she’s refused to see him for what he could be or the multiple times she’s lashed out and let her mind get away from her. But she’s beginning to understand a God who just wants you to think about the stupid thing you did so you don’t do it again.

His thumb brushes her palm, and she looks up into his eyes. They’re as glassy as hers feel.

“If I ever made you feel like I didn't love you it was only out of self preservation. I'm not excusing it, but I'm nowhere near settling. Sometimes I forget how to breathe around you.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, so obviously, it nearly knocks the wind out of her. It throws her so much she can't even think of a spicy comeback.

This seems to surprise him, and he finally, blessedly smiles. “I still can't believe you didn't know.”

“I still can't believe you didn't tell me.”

This really is the way he's always looked at her, isn't it?

She hears their waiter next to them. She can’t imagine they’ve been making stupid gushy faces at each other for that long but she’s honestly not sure.

She’d be mad at him for interrupting but it’s probably not the greatest idea to start your “for real” kiss across a table of mostly eaten food. Plus, he seems a bit stressed, and does not have the patented black billfold with the check in it.

Rafa looks over at him, noticing the empty hands.

“Did Franco insist I not pay again?” he asks, then laughs at the kid’s nod indicating the affirmative. “Tell him that's a horrible business model. And I suppose you won't accept a tip either?”

He asks this as he digs through his wallet, clearly going to pay someone for something.

“Nope,” the kid smiles, leaning back on his heels. There’s something here she doesn’t understand. Isn’t privy to. She’ll ask later.

“David,” he states, holding out a wrapped bill for the kid. "At least take a twenty you can pretend not to split with everyone.”

David sighs, then takes the cash. “You drive a hard bargain as always, Mr. Barba.”

She’s pretty sure there was more than $20 in that roll, but she isn’t pointing it out to anyone.

* * *

When they’re outside, she assumes walking back to his place, she decides to press it.

“Can I ask what the deal was back there?”

He stops, considers for a moment how much he should tell her.

“Franco, the chef, his daughter is - was - a client.”

Was sounds ominous, especially his tone over the word, as if he’s lost something or failed somewhere. She can’t believe she wouldn’t know about one of his cases, one like that. Maybe it’s been too long…

Oh.

“Gia?”

Gia was the first victim to come forward in the Grant case. All of 23, an aspiring actress, Gia had more fire than Keshia Charles, Rafael Barba and Olivia Benson combined. When Reston Tyler refused to prosecute, she went to the New Yorker.

When Rafael resigned, she was the first person to call and tell her it was going to be okay. Her - as if she was the victim. As if she was the one who needed justice and an advocate.

As far as most of the world was concerned, Gia took a hard fall down the stairs one night. Drunk, the tabloid press claimed, without a hair of evidence, implying nasty things about her character.

When her death was announced the internet speculated she’d been pushed - murdered.

She suspects it’s something different entirely. The death certificate was strange. The Feds have been cagey about their case, even though they think it’s solid.

She’s not going to bring up old conspiracies. Memories of Alex Cabot’s “death”. That leads to false hope and bitter disappointment.

The simplest answer is usually the correct one. Gia Taranti was probably dead, and her fall was likely predicated by a large dose of Ambien and Vodka.

Maybe someone pushed her. Maybe not. The point is she was scared.

Rafael nods, somehow reading at least some of her thoughts. She takes his hand, laces their fingers together. Tries not to think about how her eyes are filling up with tears.

“Gia was -” she stumbles. There really aren’t words for it. “I miss her.”

Rafa has to testify, to honor Gia’s memory. To honor the sacrifice of all of the victims they don’t even know about. To give voice to the voiceless.

Rafa - always so put together and eloquent. Always with the right words and never a hair out of place. If he shows an ounce of the vulnerability she’s seeing now on the stand - Walter Grant will be in jail for a very long time.

Keshia is so good her hair may just actually be full of moonbeams.

She squeezes his hand. He smiles. He’s definitely not fucking in love with Ben. What idiot believed that twice?

* * *

They enter the lobby, wave to Yolanda. She grins wildly.

It occurs that they haven’t actually talked about where they’re going but when he punches the elevator to a different floor than Ben and Drew’s she has some idea.

Maybe this date will be going well after all.

“Be honest-” she smirks as they ride up to his floor, “Is Yolanda to blame for Barba’s Babes?”

He groans, head falling against the wall. “That’s from a podcast.”

“You listen to podcasts?”

She always thought his headphones were full of Broadway Cast Recordings and opera.

“No, but Carisi does,” He smiles, laughing about Sonny as usual. “He hasn’t made you listen to it yet?”

She shakes her head. Carisi has been far less ridiculous lately. Maturity, possibly. A crush, maybe. “He’s a little preoccupied with work and…”

“ADA Charles?”

“Yeah.” she smiles. “You’ll have to give me the name of this podcast some time so I can tease you about what they say.”

He closes his eyes sharply, “I haven’t even been able to bring myself to listen.”

“See,” she reaches over, hand against his surprisingly impressive biceps. It’s not that she hasn’t noticed before, but feeling is another thing. “I thought you liked people stroking that ego of yours.”

He looks down, grin overtaking him. “To an extent. Sometimes it’s inappropriate.”

She hopes he doesn’t find this inappropriate. Though he’s grinning and not telling her to go away so probably not. 

“The panties really bothered you that much?” 

“It was a convention - not a rock concert.”

“You’re such a square sometimes.”

“It just worries me they don’t understand what I’m trying to do when things like that happen.”

“We aren't all as eloquent as you at expressing our appreciation.”

“Says the person who's never been tongue tied in her life.”

She's a bit tongue tied now. Overwhelmed. A comment about tying his tongue around hers flares at the back of her mind. She doesn't voice it. She's horny, sure, but this is something else. Something different. She’s under some sort of spell she isn't sure she ever got out of.

If he was ever disenchanted with her, she certainly isn’t with him. In spite of her best efforts. In spite of efforts she’s regretting wholeheartedly

* * *

He pushes the key in the lock, his apartment is beautiful. Homier than she expected. Exposed brick and built-in shelves lined with books. He throws the keys in a bowl next to the door, then offers to take her coat. He disappears to a closet.

She catches a photo on the far wall - Sonny, Amanda, Rafael, Ben and Drew laughing. She instantly knows where it's from. What she missed.

Before she can wallow in misery about things she failed to consider he reappears. He furrows his brow at her expression - so she points to the photo.

“I'm sorry I wasn't there,” she shrugs.

“We'll just have to take a new one at some point,” he says with a tone that flares in her heart. His God is way more forgiving than hers. Thank… well, God. “You want something to drink?”

He motions to the kitchen. She feels drunk enough on wine and endorphins, thank you, but she appreciates the effort.

“We drank that whole bottle of Pinot, Rafa,” she calls after him as he opens the door.

“I have coffee and… um,” he digs through his fridge. “Orange juice?”

Of course his beverage selection leaves something to be desired. She’s not really concerned about it. “Water’s fine.”

He pours them each a glass and directs her to the couch. His impossibly soft, big comfy couch. She can’t believe this place is in the same building as Dr. Ben and Mr. Drew Wonderful’s apartment that could appear in Architectural Digest.

She’s not sure why she’s never allowed herself to believe he’d want something sleek and modern with oblong shapes and obtuse angles.

He may not be traditional or classic, but neither is she, and maybe it isn’t a coincidence she feels like she fits.

“Can I ask you something?” she tests, shoes discarded on the floor with her head against the back of the couch. Water on the coffee table in front of them. Her legs are folded underneath her knees and it’s wrong that it feels like home here already, right?

He sets his glass next to hers, and mirrors her stance. Head against the back of the couch, hand caressing hers. He’s still wearing the stupid fuchsia jacket, but his shoes are off. The socks are fuchsia, too.

She looks up, ready to give him a hard time about why he’s chosen to cosplay as an eggplant, but his expression - all soft and vulnerable and honest - she’s suddenly forgotten what she was going to squabble about.

His hand stops moving, but he doesn’t release it. “Anything,” he answers.

It gives her the courage, the gumption, to actually go for the thing that’s been bothering her. Because to ask this, to name it, is both to confront the step they’re taking and the path he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

Once they go here there’s no going back, and she thinks that’s why he waited.

“Did you finally ask me out today because you got some good news from the doctor?”

She’s expecting a gentle ribbing about having laid the questioning for a good case or something, and he still doesn’t quite answer the question that she didn’t quite ask.

“Could never get one over on you, could we?” He laughs, “They did give me an all clear but - “

“For what?”

He struggles to find the proper term, all of it seeming gauche. He settles for “strenuous activity.”

It should leave a bad taste in her mouth. Something about being a sure thing and moving too fast. But it’s been far too long as it is, and she’s honestly never been this sure of anything in her life.

You can’t take the thing you didn’t ask for, right? If you don’t leap you can’t fly.

“You're saying you're allowed to have sex now and that's why you finally took the plunge?” she tries to tease, but he doesn’t see it as such.

“Hey. I've been asking you out for years,” he reaches for her hand, thumb rubbing her palm as he stares into her eyes. “I've been stalling because I knew when I did this I needed to do it right, and if I wasn't up to full strength I couldn't recover if it went wrong. And we seem to be irritating each other out of this so -"

She squeezes his hand before he can turn away.

“It's not going wrong, Rafa,” she attempts to assure. Deciding instead to leave herself bare. “I was trying to squabble. I've just been waiting so long for this.”

“I know.” The me too is implied. It's in the longing look he gives her.

She smiles, running her hand over his bicep.

“So can you finally fucking kiss me for real?”

He smiles back and leans closer, placing a quick peck to her lips. She groans in frustration before he massages the back of her head and pulls her mouth into his.

He's very, very good at this.

“You can keep doing that for awhile.”

He laughs, pulls her against him. She's melting. His hands are in her hair, at her hips, under her breasts. He feels so good

He's pouring himself over her, really. He's consuming her, marking her - but she's not his property. She's his partner.

She pulls back, looks into his eyes.

“Wow,” she gasps, running her hands over his toned chest. “If we're bad at this I'm gonna be so mad.”

“You think there's a possibility of that?” he laughs, leaning forward to kiss her again.

“I don't know, I'm just worried…” she trails off. That isn’t the right word. “Afraid we may have waited too long and it's all gonna … fizzle.”

“Fizzle?” he stops, eyeing between them as if the chemistry is physically crackling against them. Maybe it’s the same for him as it is for her, but that seems… like something she wished for but never expected to have. “Liv - we can keep practicing until we get it right, but I have a feeling we won't need it.”

Well then.

She pulls him back toward her, gently grasping his paisley tie, and places a kiss to his cheek. “Always so confident.”

“Not always,” he admits, their past flaring at the edges of his smile. “Just about this. Us. Now.”

He moves his lips to her neck, placing quick kisses at the column of her throat. After a few minutes he makes some comment about a bed that she doesn’t follow because she’s honestly a little lightheaded.

“Liv,” he pulls back, hands smoothing along her temple? “Did you need to make sure Noah gets to bed?”

“What? No,” she murmurs, “Ben said they’d watch him overnight.”

“Okay,” he resumes kissing along her jawline, her fingers scrape along the back of his neck.

“Wait,” she pushes against him, “You didn’t plan that?”

“No,” he searches her eyes. “I mean, I hoped, but I’m learning to leap.”

“With contingencies though.”

He laughs, then asks if she’d like to continue this somewhere a little bit more comfortable. It takes her a solid few seconds to grasp what he means because her brain is a little mushy.

* * *

She’s not entirely sure what possesses her to immediately turn around and ask him to unzip the dress - nor to step out of it completely.

“Not wasting time I see,” he taunts, untying the tie they’d done a good job of loosening in the living room.

“Didn’t seem sophisticated enough for you,” she smiles, leaning against him and pushing the stupid fuchsia jacket off his shoulders.

“Plenty sophisticated,” he pulls the tie off, tossing it behind him before capturing her lips again. She pulls her hands under the suspenders. They are, of course, purple. She laughs against him.

“You think I look like a grape, don’t you?”

Not actually purple enough, really. “Barney,” she giggles.

He twists his mouth, tongue swiping against his back teeth. She can tell he wants to be mad, but she wouldn’t be half-naked standing in his arms in his bedroom if she didn’t like it a little.

“I should be offended,” he shakes his head,

“Should you now?" he starts unbuttoning his shirt as she makes work of his cuff links. She places them in the palm of his hand and he disappears into his closet.

She climbs up onto the bed, trying to catch her breath. The only way out is through, she reminds herself. She’s kneeling when he re-emerges, clad only in an undershirt and boxers.

She understands suddenly that his armor is gone, and only she gets to see him without it.

“What?” he asks, flipping off the light in the closet that has to be the size of Noah’s bedroom.

“Just thinking that the Internet people are definitely going to hate me now.”

“You're Olivia Fucking Benson,” he states reverently, as if it’s ridiculous she would think anyone wouldn’t like her. “They do not and they will not.”

“Maybe I should throw my panties at you.”

“Now that is an elegant way of expressing your appreciation.”

“Come here.”

He pulls the undershirt over his head and climbs over her, capturing her lips in a kiss that would have her collapsing if she wasn’t already lying down. He moves to her neck, licking along her throat as he reaches his hands under her back to find her bra clasp.

He peels it off of her, tosses the bra behind him, muscles flexing against his chest. Then moves over to kiss at her nipple, dragging one into his mouth.

She feels herself whine his name more than she hears it. She bucks up against the broad thigh between her legs, combing her fingers through his hair to pull him closer.

She can feel him against her leg. She realizes fabric can distort things but she already knows she's a very lucky lady. Even though luck doesn't have anything to do with it.

He releases her. Then moves down to slowly tear her panties off. He’s the one who throws them. At nothing in particular.

“Jesus Liv,” he mutters, head leaning against her thigh as his fingers play at her clit.

“I need you.” She whines. She meant she needed  _him._ But he leans over and places a kiss to her center instead. Sliding two fingers down and into her core.

Then he licks at her lower lips, coaxing them open with his free hand, as he pulls her swollen, hardened bud between his lips. She nearly comes right there.

It doesn't take long to actually get there.

When she crashes back down to earth he climbs up her torso, pulling her into another tumbling, reality fraying kiss. Love with passion is kind of overwhelming honestly.

“I wish you could see how amazing you looked,” he says as he breaks away slightly, enough for her to catch the awe in his eyes, then kisses her again.

No more amazing than this feels, surely. His tongue is in her mouth. She can feel his heart against hers. Everything is as close as it can be. Except for the boxers between her legs instead of him, everything is perfect.

He pulls away from her mouth again. His hands at her ribs. Hers are at his neck, fiddling with the hair at his nape. He grins. Her mouth grins back before she realizes what it’s doing.

This man.

How could she ever think he’d marry someone else? This man isn't allowed to marry anyone but her. She laughs, thinking about how she's already decided to marry him and she's not even sure they've finished the date. How possessive she's become since she almost lost him for good.

Maybe she's not married to marriage just yet. It’s possible he wouldn't want to.

But this man, this bright star, is the only person who looks at her like this. He's the only person who she'd allow to. Who she wants to.

And as besotted as the rest of the world is with him now, well, they don't know the half of it. He's the only person she's ever felt like this about. Certainly the only person she wants to feel this way about.

Maybe it shows on her face too. She hopes it shows.

“What's so amusing?” he smirks, thumb caressing just below her breast.

“You,” she murmurs, hands at his shoulders. “Dawdling as usual.”

He grimaces. She didn't mean it as an insult.

“I forgot condoms,” he breathes, “I wasn't thinking.”

It’s a bit comforting to know he didn’t have the whole thing planned out. That even he is capable of forgetting minute details and getting nervous. That in all of his hope things went to this conclusion he forgot the thing that would conclude it. Maybe she wasn’t a sure thing after all. Maybe it isn’t as much of a problem as he’s expecting it to be.

“Shhh,” she soothes, fingers massaging his scalp. “I can't get pregnant and I assume your all clear means you haven't been with anyone else in a while.”

She hasn't. He doesn't need to know that. It isn't what she's asking and she should have framed it better, “I mean, I'm not really sure how long it's been since your incident but -”

Two months, five days. She stopped counting the hours at the first month. She's working on stopping the day count. She's hoping once they get to a year she can stop the months

She doesn't exactly want him to know that. But she can't find the right way to tell him all the usual reasons for protection have a low percentage rate without forcing him to give a detailed sexual history she doesn't have the stomach to know about.

Hypocritical really - given the Ed and Brian of it all.

“I'm clean.” he answers, following her train of thought before she embarrasses herself. Bless him. She's not sure what timeline she'd want him to have. Maybe that answer eliminates the question. “As long it's okay?” he raises one eyebrow.

He knows his answer but he still wants it out loud. Its feeding his ego and explicit consent all at once and it’s kind of annoying how his mouth quirks into a grin before she even says it.

Also infuriatingly attractive. He definitely knows the effect he has on her and is using it to his advantage. Like she needed to get more worked up over him.

She slides a hand to his shoulder, grinning as she resists the urge to take matters into her own hands --  or mouth.

“Yes, bigshot.”

He leans back, pulls down his briefs, and well - she is a very, very lucky lady indeed. Bigshot was more apt than she had really thought over.

She licks her lips as he reaches down to hold himself. She can't help the urge and reaches down to finger her clit.

He smirks. “I believe that's my job.”

She smiles, meets his eyes, then stops the circling. She pulls her hands to the back of her head as he leans over her and guides himself inside of her.

Finally.

Blessedly.

“You okay?” He asks as he starts to thrust. She shakes her head, words escaping her.

He leans over her, chest flush against hers as he buries his head in her neck and she grabs at his shoulders.

If this is what ecstasy feels like it's worth all the trouble. Well, a lot of the trouble.

It's a few minutes later, when his shaft is deep within and hitting against that special bundle of nerves, that she truly knows what bliss is.

She's never letting him go.

* * *

“I was wrong,” she sighs, rubbing her hands along his back after she's regained her breath. Her consciousness.

He looks up from her neck, raising his eyebrow. “Excuse me?.”

“About this,” she motions between them, hooking her legs around his waist in an attempt to pull him closer. “We are very, very good at this.”

He laughs. “I know that. I was just making sure I heard you right. Olivia Benson doesn't admit she's wrong.”

“Shut up.”

“You first.”

She holds her hands at his neck and leans up, pulling his lips against hers. “I like the way you think.” He smiles against her.  He's slipped out of her but she can feel him hardening again already.

She rolls her hips slightly, involuntarily. If he's annoyed or tired he doesn't say so. Just looks down at her and smiles. Grins.

“Maybe it's a good thing I got stabbed.”

“You're admitting it was a stab?” she asks, resisting the urge to reach between them and run her finger along the scar.

He has plenty. She doesn't ask. She knows enough. The details are for later. In a different moment.

She'll tell him about hers later. The ones he doesn't already know.

“A light stab.” He insists. “And I meant all this rehab’s gone to my muscles and I can tell you like the difference.”

She does. But it isn't the difference, really. It's that she can stare unabashedly now. She doesn't have to hide it.

It's proof he's okay. He's better, even than before. And he loves her of all people. The muscles were always there - it’s just these ones might help with some more interesting positions she's already thinking of trying.

She settles for “Like you weren't in shape before.”

“You noticed?”

“You're an attractive man. Don't push your luck.”

He smirks, then leans down, and takes her nipple into his mouth.

She whines against him, taking his hand in hers and placing it on her other breast. Instead he licks at her areola, keeping his hand where it is.

“Come on, the other one needs attention.”

He adjusts slightly, raising his eyebrows look into her eyes, then releases her with one last kiss to it.

“Bossy,” he murmurs, pulling the other into his mouth.

“I know what I like.” She whimpers as he sucks, running his thumb against the other. Christ.

He releases both, settling his chin between them and gazing up at her. He’s definitely ready to go again and so is she.

“What would you like next, then?”

Two can play that game, she thinks. “What did you have in mind?”

If his grin is anything to go by she’s fallen into another trap.

“Maybe you on top,” he answers, feigning sheepishness.

She’s beginning to like his traps.

She wants to taunt him about how he should have waltzed into her office the day he resigned and planted one on her. Maybe she should have waltzed into his office the day they met and shut him up (would he even follow a comment about a belt?).

Instead she settles her hips over his and guides him inside. They don't say a thing. The bed creaks, he pants, she moans. She picks up the pace and he smiles. Then he holds his hands to her hips and changes the angle so he’s hitting the exact right spot in the exact right way.

She throws her head back, briefly wondering if they're actually good at this or she’s just so grateful it isn't terrible she's exacerbating things. Maybe he’s the one who’s good at this.

She looks down into his eyes and finds it doesn’t matter if either of them are good at this part. She’s not letting him go and he isn’t going to leave.

His fingers are digging into her hips and hers are braced across his chest for balance - she shouldn't be comforted to feel his heartbeat under her palm, but she is. More than she's willing to tell him, especially now.

Then the scream bubbles up over her as she collapses against him. He thrusts a few short bursts and then empties inside. Catching his breath as he kisses at her hairline.

They're sweaty and gross and need to clean, but she’d also love to go again once she finds the energy.

For now she lets him slip out of her and settles her ear over his chest. Feeling his heartbeat is never going to be old.

“Liv,” he whispers, pulling sheets up over them with his left hand. They're so soft she almost feels guilty he’s going to have to get them washed in the morning. Almost.

“Hmm?” she asks, burrowing further.

“Ben thinks that Carisi imprints himself onto authority figures because he never got approval from his father.”

She groans. Lifting herself up to look him in the eyes. The sheet falls off her back. “Have you been thinking about Friedman and Sonny this whole time?”

He eyes her cleavage against his chest. “Even I can't compartmentalize to that degree.”

“So what's your point?” she asks, balancing herself over him.

“He has to lay off Keshia until after they nab Grant,” he answers, hands at her back, “Or his lawyers will seize the opportunity to paint a conflict of interest.”

She didn’t realize Carisi’s crush was that big of an issue. Carisi really does love everyone, but maybe this time it’s reciprocated?

She shifts, lying more against him now. “You think she'd take him up on it?” she searches his face.

“My judgment is not to be trusted there,” his face is inscrutable. This isn’t the real point he’s making. “But the appearance is the problem.”

She agrees, nods, then lays her head back down against his chest. “I'll talk to him tomorrow.”

She closes her eyes, breathes him in. She’s comfy and cozy and about to have what is shaping up to be the best night’s sleep she’s had in a long time when he pierces the silence.

“Liv-” he whispers tentatively, not entirely sure if she’s still awake or not.

“What now?” she whines, not moving anything but her lips.

“Speaking of conflicts of interest,” he leads. He doesn’t want to say it out loud, but he’s absolutely right. If they’re going to paint a conflict about an ADA and a cop the problem isn’t just Keshia and Sonny - even if it’s a former ADA and a Lieutenant.

This was his entire reason for not pursuing their relationship before, and it’s only just occurring to both of them that it’s still an issue. At least, still an issue if he’s going to testify. Which he has to.

“I have to pull myself off the Grant case, don’t I?”

His heart is beating so fast. He’s so tense and she’s so worried about it she barely hears his response.

“Or we can’t keep doing this.”

She pulls back, looks into his eyes. The same fear she felt earlier. Except - she’s afraid he loves someone else more and he’s afraid he’s only the job to her.

Idiots, really.

She curls her hand against his jaw. “You think I'd choose a case over you?”

The way his lips curve, the way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes - it almost breaks her heart clear in two. “This case needs you.”

He has a point, but somewhere along the way she’s going to have to learn to relinquish some control. At a certain point, between Amanda and Fin and Carisi and Keshia, they have it handled. They can take care of some things on their own.

She can be selfish at least once in her life, right?

“I need you,” she assures him, thumb rubbing against his cheek. “I think they'll be okay without me.”

He smiles, this time it reaches his eyes. Then he leans forward and kisses her softly. For real.

“By the way,” she mutters, nuzzling into his chest again as he turns off the bedside lamp. “I love you.”

He doesn’t even laugh, but his heartbeat quickens ever so slightly. It’s the good kind of quickening. He’s excited.

“I love you more,” he digs his fingers into her hair and kisses the top of her head.

“Lies,” is all she manages to get out before she falls asleep.

She thought she was in love with him before. She definitely is now.

The best and worst first date she’s ever been on. She may be wrong, but she’s hoping it’s the last first date she’ll ever go on.

No matter what happens - home was him a long time ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you don't hate it!


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